After the Bombs
by nero749
Summary: Moriarty isn't done yet. Horrible messages start to show up. They're clearly meant for Sherlock Holmes, but there's something else about the whole situation, a clue everyone but Sherlock himself seems to have missed...
1. Chapter 1

Sherlock was staring at John. The conversation was one-sided, but that was nothing new. As was John's vacant stare. Sherlock was sitting in his own chair, leaning back while staring at John's gleaming forehead. Sherlock's hands were under his chin, fingertips touching. He did this so often he was scarcely aware of doing it now.

Without warning, Sherlock leaped to his feet. Suddenly irritated by John's silence. Stepping on the coffee table to get to the couch, Sherlock deliberately didn't look at the plastic face that seemed to be accusing him of not caring about people. Sherlock let himself fall on the couch and rolled over on his side, his back turned to the room. But mainly turned to John.

Sherlock couldn't remember why he had kept the dummies, but he'd had both of them stuffed in his bedroom closet. He'd put John's dummy in John's chair, telling himself he'd simply done that to have something to bounce ideas off. And honestly, the dummies input was about as useful as John's input had ever been. The real John, the John that needed to breath to live and would've used that breath to communicate his displeasure with Sherlock's actions, was in the hospital. With Sarah.

Visiting hours were over, of course, but John still knew people at St. Bart's so he had been permitted to stay. Sherlock realised John wasn't at the hospital because he wanted to be with Sarah, but rather because he didn't want to be around Sherlock right now.

Moriarty had kept his promise. Had not forgotten what he had said he would do. Except he didn't seem to have gone after Sherlock's heart. Or maybe he had. After all, John wasn't at 221b baker street at the moment.

When they had found Sarah, she was about to be buried alive by one of Moriarty's people. Just in time had Sherlock deduced where Sarah had to be. After all, there would only be one place you could get rid of a body with virtual no risk of it being discovered. The coffin had literally already been closed and was ready to be lowered into the ground, when Sherlock and John had burst in and stopped the funeral.

The look on John's face when they opened the coffin and found Sarah, drugged, but alive. Relieved but still worried. Sherlock's expression on the other hand, had been smug - one of victory. An expression he hadn't taken of his face, because he hadn't realised in time how John would react to it. Sherlock had actually been a bit surprised when he saw John's reaction to his own expression. And he could've sworn John was about to hit him. And most likely would've, if Sarah hadn't chosen that moment to try and speak.

As Sarah got lifted into the ambulance, John had looked at Sherlock in a way Sherlock couldn't recognise, because he had never seen that look on John's face before.

Hate.

No, not hate. Disgust, Sherlock guessed. But then he did sometimes have trouble reading people's expressions. He could almost always guess their motives, because there weren't a lot of different ones, but expressions… they were tricky.

The moonlight had changed into sunlight and Sherlock was still lying on the couch. His eyes were closed, but he had been awake all through the night. Moriarty would be awake as well and he had to find a way to stop him.

You can't be allowed to go on, the strange duality of Moriarty's voice was a very clear memory in Sherlock's mind. Somehow the memory of his own threat seemed weak to Sherlock now. Catch you later. It seemed…

The door banged shut. It had been open all night, because Sherlock never bothered with closing it, but now it banged shut. Sherlock looked over his shoulder and caught a glimpse of John disappearing into the kitchen. Sherlock stayed on the couch. He considered pretending to be asleep. But in the end could find no logical reason for doing that. So instead he dragged himself off the couch and walked over to the kitchen himself. He moved towards his microscope, pretending to check one of his experiments.

John opened the refrigerator and took something out. Sherlock wasn't able to see what without moving his head, so he let it go.

Still without saying a single word, John passed Sherlock and started moving things around to free a space on the table. Sherlock had occupied the kitchen table as a small laboratory, filling it's entire surface with strange looking bottles with colourful liquids inside. John continued with his passive aggressive way of clearing a small corner for himself. Sherlock stayed exactly where he was. He noticed John sometimes glanced at him, but didn't let on that he knew.

Then, without warning, John suddenly swept most of the bottles and other junk off of the table. "You don't even care do you?" he suddenly almost yelled at Sherlock. Sherlock looked up, his face still calm and composed. He looked at John as John continued. "Sarah's in the hospital because of us and you don't even care!"

Sherlock raised his chin slightly. Still not responding to John's tirade. He could see angry tears in his friend's eyes, but that wasn't something he could act on. As usual this display of emotion made him uncomfortable; he simply did not know how to deal with it.

John clenched his jaw and looked away. Presumably trying to calm himself before speaking again. Apparently he decided against even trying, because he left the kitchen without saying another word.

Sherlock could hear the TV being switched on. He stayed at his microscope, still pretending to be looking at a slide. He would've liked to go back to the couch, but for that he would have to face John and he wasn't certain what he would see. If John was crying, he wouldn't know what to do. In his life Sherlock had accumulated no data that would help him comfort a friend.

A phone rang. Sherlock shuffled some of the papers still lying on the table around to find it.

Sherlock? The voice on the other end was Lestrade. It wasn't surprising, there were only three people who had Sherlock's number and out of them Lestrade was the most likely to call him.

"We've found another one," Lestrade said. Sherlock's brain quickly went through all the possible meanings of that sentence. Another body? But he wasn't working on any cases at the moment. Another case? But why would he say 'we've found another one.'

"Sherlock? Are you there?"

Sherlock realised he'd been silent for a while now. "What did you find?"

"Another message," there was a short pause, "of sorts…"

Sherlock hang up without responding and got up. He took his coat from the back of the door and then turned to John. He hesitated. "Coming?" he finally asked.

"What?" John sounded agitated.

"Lestrade found another message from Moriarty."

John didn't look at him once during the cab ride. Sherlock couldn't help but glanced at his friend from time to time. But John's gaze was always fixed on the window or something outside.

When the cab finally slowed down at their destination, Lestrade was there to meet them. He came towards them with long strides. "Stop," he yelled at the cabdriver. "We have to get to St. Bart's."

Sherlock could feel John moving next to him. Leaning forward, across him to talk to Lestrade through the open cab door. "What's happened?" he asked anxiously.

Lestrade shook his head.; he didn't want to say in front of the cabdriver. "Is it Sarah?" John asked, almost climbing over Sherlock to get out of the cab.

Lestrade just shook his head, but it wasn't clear whether that meant she was unharmed, or that he didn't want to tell them just yet.

"Sherlock, get out, we'll take my car, that way we'll get through traffic a lot faster."

"I'm not going in a police car," Sherlock simply stated. John turned to look at him, his eyes full of disbelieve and anger. "Sherlock!" he said.

Sherlock ignored him and closed the cab door. "I'll meet you at St. Bart's," he yelled so they would hear him.

Naturally John and Lestrade arrived long before Sherlock did and he hoped John would already have visited Sarah by now, so he would not have to join him in her room. He had no doubt Sarah was unharmed. If Sarah had been harmed, Lestrade would have dealt with it in a very different way. He would have said so on the phone, hoping Sherlock - as a friend of John's - would be able to break the news to John more gently than a stranger would. Of course he would've been wrong.

Both John and Lestrade were looking particularly annoyed when Sherlock finally met up with them. However, neither of them tried to reprimand him for his conduct. "This way," was all Lestrade said.

They entered a hallway where two policemen where keeping people out and Sherlock could see that one of the rooms had the familiar police tape across it's door. Lestrade lifted it so he could enter the room and held it up to allow Sherlock and John entry.

It was an unremarkable hospital room in every sense, except that only one bed was occupied and there were half a dozen people in the room, all examining it. The body on the bed was that of a middle-aged man. There was no sign of any injury and yet you could immediately tell he wasn't simply sleeping. He was dead.

"The theory is someone must have injected him with a poison," Lestrade said. He moved closer to the body and pointed at a small red mark on the man's arm. "But we're still waiting on the results of the toxicology report."

"Someone?" John asked incredulously. "You mean Moriarty."

"No," Sherlock said determent. "Someone who works for him." John looked at him aggravated.

Lestrade looked from Sherlock to John, frowning slightly and clearly not sure of what was going on.

Sherlock ignored both of them. He moved to the bed and took the clipboard from the end of the bed. He studied it. Then glanced at the body. Handing the clipboard to Lestrade - who took it despite feeling like Sherlock's subordinate - Sherlock moved around the bed and threw the blanket off the man.

It isn't the same man, Sherlock thought to himself.

"We've…" Lestrade started to say, but Sherlock shushed him with a movement of his hand.

Sherlock straightened himself. "This isn't the same man as the one who was admitted." He stated.

"What?" John exclaimed.

"Sherlock, the hospital staff would've noticed if a patient got replaced with someone else," Lestrade said.

Sherlock raised an eyebrow. Then started to rattle. "I doubt they would. They have to deal with an insane amount of patients and they would've only seen this one briefly. Most likely he was discovered by a single staff member, who would've only briefly seen this man and most likely have seen the actually patient only briefly as well. Add to that the fact that ordinary people aren't likely to notice something they did not expect and it is more than plausible a patient could have been switched for someone of similar build."

"But why do you think…" John started.

"I do not think, I know," Sherlock said. He took the clipboard back from Lestrade - who had been holding on to it dumbly all this time - and thrust it at John.

Despite his irritation with Sherlock and his underlying anger about Sherlock's callous behaviour towards Sarah, John took the clipboard and studied it. Every now and then he glanced up at the body. Sherlock fixed his eyes on John, as if willing him to see the truth as clearly as he did. Lestrade turned his head away from the two, trying to keep his calm.

"I don't see it," John said eventually.

Sherlock let out a long sigh and threw his hands up. "John, with your medical training you should be able to spot the obvious fact in there that tells us this is not the same man as was admitted.

John let out a deep breath and gritted his teeth, all in an effort to not let Sherlock's remark insult him. He failed spectacularly. "Fine," he said, thrusting the clipboard at Lestrade, who once again took it and held it dumbly. "Just take me through it, will you?"

Sherlock turned to Lestrade, "can you get me his shoes?"

"His shoes?" Lestrade started to ask for an explanation but soon gave up. Instead he instructed one of his officers to find the patients shoes.

When the young officer came back, he was carrying not just the victim's shoes, but all his clothes, Sherlock took one shoe in his hand and gave the other one to John.

"Fairly expensive shoes, fashionable, not too old, but obviously worn quite often; the leather around the heel and toes is soft, stretched," Sherlock was pouring out words at his usual rate, leaving no pauses for questions or remarks and really not a hell of a lot of time to process what he was saying. As usual John was straining to follow the monologue being thrust at him. Trying to pick up all the little facts Sherlock would expect him to remember.

"But… the soul is still firm, hardly pliable, unlikely whoever wore these did a lot of walking with them. A fact that's easily corroborated by the fact that there are almost no scuffmarks on the soles. As if the shoes were brand new, while we know they are not. So… shoes that are worn a lot, but shoes no one ever walks on. Therefore the owner is most likely paralysed."

John waited a moment before replying, half expecting more information to be thrown at him. But Sherlock remained quite, so John took his chance. "That makes sense, because his chart does mention he's paralysed from the waist down."

"Exactly!" Sherlock exclaimed. John knew that tone of voice too well, he knew Sherlock expected him to have cracked the case know. To understand what he had understood within seconds. But John didn't have a clue. And soon Sherlock face fell. He almost seemed disappointed that John hadn't figured it out for himself.

Sherlock took a deep breath. "The man in this bed obviously wasn't paralysed from the waist down."

"You can't simply…" Lestrade started saying, annoyed by the show Sherlock always made out of solving crimes.

"I can," Sherlock said. "Look at his legs. Really look." he moved around the bed and gestured along the length of the man's legs. The man was wearing a hospital gown, which meant his legs were mostly bare. John stared at the legs and couldn't see anything. What was he supposed to see? Sherlock had such an extensive knowledge of the most absurd things that there was no telling what clue he had seen.

Sherlock turned on his heels. "His legs, John, his legs!" he exclaimed. "A man paralysed from the waist down would not have those legs!"

"They're too muscled," Lestrade said.

"Precisely! They would've atrophied. These legs are clearly an active man's legs."

"Then the man was pretending to be paralysed?" John asked.

"I highly doubt it," Sherlock said. "I suspect the hospital staff would've noticed that during their treatment of them." Pushing past Lestrade who was looking at the shoe John was holding, Sherlock moved towards the other clothing items. He took out his magnifying glass and studied the jacket. "And this confirms it," Sherlock said, "The majority of the hairs on here are dark, not the sandy colour our victim has."

"But why would Moriarty even do that?" John asked, feeling more and more aggravated by the second.

Sherlock turned to John and hesitated for a moment. It wasn't something he was used to doing, Usually he just stated the blunt truth, no matter if it could be painful, but this time he paused. "It's a message John."

John looked at him, slightly frowning, almost as if he could sense what Sherlock's short pause meant. "From Moriarty, for us?" he asked.

"No, for me," Sherlock said, his eyes still fixed on John in that eerie way he had.

Then Sherlock turned on the heel of his foot and spoke to Lestrade, "John is missing something important. You said it was a message from Moriarty. How did you know?"


	2. Chapter 2

John swallowed. Desperately he looked around the room. Expecting an envelope or a phone. In his panic, John could only think of the last time Moriarty had send Sherlock a message. The case he had come to call The Great Game.

Lestrade's brow furrowed. He looked at Sherlock then at John. He seemed unsure whether to show it to them. But eventually he signalled to someone standing behind Sherlock and John. It was Donavon. As usual she did little to disguise her hatred for Sherlock, however she didn't say anything and the short glance toward John told Sherlock this wasn't going to be pleasant.

Donavon handed over a small plastic evidence bag. Lestrade took it and held it up so both John and Sherlock could see its contents. It was a small scalpel. Clean and shining, but all the more terrifying for it.

John felt trepidation building inside, but he couldn't understand why. And why had Lestrade thought this was a message for Sherlock from Moriarty? It was just a knife, a scalpel, it was supposed to be in a hospital, so why was it so threatening?

As if he had heard John thinking, Sherlock asked Lestrade, "and how is it connected to us?"

"When we found it we didn't think much of it, but shortly after that we discovered one of the other patients had been attacked as well."

John felt his heart sink. He knew, he knew why this was a message for them. Suddenly it was clear, even without being told so. Was this the way Sherlock felt when he made one of his leaps of deduction?

John abruptly turned to Sherlock as he realised, "You knew already! You knew already this had to do with Sarah and you didn't say a word!"

"She's alright. The wounds were superficial," Lestrade said, trying to defuse the situation.

"Wounds?" John stared angrily at Lestrade and then Sherlock. He left the room, almost running to the staircase to get to Sarah's floor.

When he finally got to the room, he couldn't get in. "Let me in!" John raged against the two officers standing outside Sarah's room. "Let me in, I'm her… doctor!" he said 'doctor' because he wasn't really sure what he was to Sarah. After this… nothing, probably.

Lestrade, Sherlock and Donavon reached the room as well. Lestrade gestured to the officers to let go of the still raging John, who almost fell into the room when the two officers simultaneously let go of his arms.

John rushed to the bed, but slowed down when he got close to it. There was a bandage on her left cheek. A white square with a faint red stain on it. John didn't get any closer. He felt himself become nauseous. They'd attacked her again! Why? Wasn't Moriarty supposed to be coming after Sherlock? After the incident with the dummies John had started to realise he was a target as well and that Moriarty could very well try to get to Sherlock through him. But why attack Sarah? It made no sense.

"We have no idea how he got in," Lestrade said. "No one saw anything."

"Then he was dressed as one of the staff," Sherlock said coldly.

"Why… never mind," Lestrade said.

Sherlock explained anyway, "The staff of a hospital has a far better chance of being invisible to the people here then someone from the outside. Basic human instinct. We distrust strangers so we pay more attention to them."

"How could this have happened?" John asked, his voice trembling. "She was in the hospital!"

"We don't…" Lestrade said.

"Where were those guards when she got attacked?" John gestured to the two men in uniform just visible through the small window in the door.

"They weren't here before," Sherlock concluded. John stared at him.

Sherlock sighed, it was the same aggravated sigh John had heard a dozen times before. It meant he - John - had missed something obvious. Well, something that was obvious to Sherlock Holmes. "You were surprised to find them here," Sherlock simply stated. "And you've been to this room quite a few times the past week, so if they had been here before, you wouldn't have been surprised."

"There was no reason to suspect she needed protection," Lestrade said to John. His voice was stern but you could hear he regretted the situation.

"And this is how you knew it was a message from Moriarty? They got to her to get to us," John said. No one responded because they could all see he was saying it just for himself.

"You really are a danger to everyone around you, aren't you," Donovan said to Sherlock. Her voice filled with the familiar venom.

But unlike what he normally did, Sherlock didn't reply. He only glanced at her and while to usual distain was there at first, it quickly disappeared. He turned his gaze to Sarah. John studied Sherlock's face but couldn't tell what he was thinking.

"I'll meet you back at the flat," Sherlock eventually said.

John looked at him surprised. "I have to look something up and I'm assuming you want to stay with Sarah for a while."

"Er…" John was still standing next to Sarah's bed. He wasn't sure of what he wanted to do.

"Lestrade," Sherlock said," text me when you know the man's identity. There must be a reason why Moriarty had that particular man put in that hospital bed." Sherlock turned around to leave, but paused at the door, "and text me when you've found the body."

"Body?" Lestrade asked surprised.

"Of the patient who was supposed to be in that hospital bed," Sherlock said.

"You're assuming he's dead?"

"Naturally," Sherlock said. "A dead man is much easier to hide then someone who's alive," Sherlock said.

"And," Lestrade said loudly to stop Sherlock from leaving, "should I call you when we find the killer," Lestrade said it slightly sarcastic, meaning he though Sherlock wasn't going to put any effort in the case, "and find out his identity?"

"Hers," Sherlock said very softly to himself. Her identity. He glanced at Sarah's arm. There was something there the police had missed. Something important.

Sherlock let his gaze move to Sarah's damaged face. Sherlock ignored Lestrade, he understood Lestrade wanted Sherlock to stay to help them find the killer, but he had no intention of staying. Sherlock looked at John, and then he left.

The Sherlock dummy was lying on the couch. Coincidentally in a way very similar to the way the real Sherlock would lie there. It was a coincidence because John had just tossed the dummy aside, while desperately looking for some kind of clue to where Sherlock could've gone.

About an hour after Sherlock had left the hospital John had gotten a text.

Off to find Moriarty. Don't wait up. SH

At first John had ignored the fear he felt in the pit of his stomach. And when he'd gotten to the flat, he even expected Sherlock to just be sitting in his chair. But the place was empty. And had remained empty the whole of the following day.

So now John was desperately trying to find a clue to where Sherlock would've gone. John hurled himself up on the couch, pushing Sherlock's legs aside to be able to sit down. Leaning back against those same legs, John felt his fear grow. Sherlock was in trouble. Or he would get himself into trouble very soon. He'd gone after Moriarty. Alone. Why alone? How could he believe to stand a chance against Moriarty alone?

John let out a deep breath. Then it suddenly dawned on him. Suddenly he realised who he could ask for help. Now he remembered something Sherlock had said. When they had first realised they had to fight Moriarty, Sherlock had mentioned the one person he had to go to for help… Mycroft.

This wasn't the same building John had been to before. Or the one Mycroft had taken him to when he basically kidnapped him during their first meeting. This building was modern and therefore incredibly ugly to John's eyes. He couldn't tell what the building housed, despite the fact that there was a sign above the main entrance. The sign had one of those especially designed fonts that was supposed to make it look expensive and impressive. The letters were highly stylised to make them look more modern. Unfortunately this also had the effect of rendering them completely illegible.

The young woman at reception was beautiful, almost as beautiful as Mycroft's PA. She let John through immediately. As John rode the elevator to the top floor he wondered if girlfriend's were Mycroft's area, or if he just collected pretty faces.

"Doctor Watson," Mycroft said as John entered the room. It looked like a conference room and Mycroft gestured John could sit down anywhere he wanted. Once seated, John looked around the room for any clues about what kind of building he was in, but found none.

Mycroft walked over and sat on the table rather than one of the chairs. "You want help finding my brother?"

"Er… yes."

"And he left out of his own accord?"

"I'm not sure," John said honestly.

"Hmm," Mycroft frowned. "What makes you think I could find Sherlock?"

"Well… I thought he might have come here, for help."

Mycroft made a noise John was certain was meant as laughter, but it didn't work exactly. "Sherlock would never admit he needs my help."

"He said he would have to ask for your help to stop Moriarty."

Mycroft frowned. "Ah yes. He did ask for my help - albeit in a roundabout way. But I believed we had dealt with that situation," he paused and looked at John. That told him the situation wasn't resolved yet. "But you suspect Moriarty might have gotten to Sherlock?"

John shook his head. "I'm not sure."

"Dr. Watson, there are really only two reasons why people disappear," Mycroft said. "Because someone wants them to disappear. Or because they want to disappear."

Undoubtedly Moriarty's men knew what he looked like. But Sherlock trusted his skills in the art of disguise. Well, mainly he trusted in the stupidity of people. The way he looked now he felt more like a mountain climber during his spare time. Moriarty's men would walk past him without even looking at him to see if it was him they were looking for. Simply because he didn't wear the same clothes, didn't move in the same way.

The hope was that Moriarty would not go after John again, because there would be no point when he didn't have his intended audience, Sherlock. Then again, perhaps he would go after John to bring Sherlock out of hiding, presuming Sherlock would keep an eye on John. Sherlock wasn't, not really, he trusted his brother to do that. Sherlock knew his brother must have had surveillance on them, Mycroft was the overprotective brother and big brother all in one. Mycroft was lazy though, and would let others do his work for him, people who might miss things.

Sherlock passed a small supermarket, the kind that was open almost all night. He felt a craving for nicotine creep up on him. The patches on his arm must have worn out, he supposed. Sherlock turned his collar up against the wind. It was cold and he was grateful for the vest he had stolen from John's closet while preparing his disguise. His jeans were worn out but still resisted the cold much better than his usual suit pants and his heavy boots were a bit too small, but they kept his feet warm at least.

The reason he was creeping around in the middle of the night through London, was that he was looking for "the Barracuda". Europe's most infamous female assassin. Sherlock was certain the police had missed it, the fact that the small puncture wounds found on the victims were the Barracuda's trade mark. He was even certain they had missed the puncture wounds on Sarah's arm completely. Those wounds were merely a warning. After all, Sarah hadn't been injected with anything - they would've noticed that at the hospital. No, the two small puncture wounds had been a threat against her life. A threat no one had been able to decipher, except Sherlock. Normally he would've shared his deduction with John, but this time he had kept it to himself.

Soon the police would name the poison that had killed the man and perhaps then someone might make the link to the Barracuda. Maybe they would even discover the wounds on Sarah's body. But Sherlock doubted it. Most people's heads were filled with information like how much you could win with the lottery, or the names of their neighbour's pets. Information - Sherlock was sure - that was vital to the communication between social groups of people, but useless when it came to his line of business.

Sherlock left the ally and entered one of London's finer neighbourhoods. His eyes flashed between the expensive stores and the luxurious hotels. He knew the Barracuda would be staying at one of them. He had narrowed down the precise street based on information he'd bought off his eyes in the city: the homeless and runaways. However, no one seemed certain which hotel she was staying in. It was the Barracuda's most powerful tool: no one knew what she looked like. But judging by the fact that she had always managed to gain entry without violence, Sherlock deduced that either she was very attractive or she looked completely harmless, helpless even.

As Sherlock passed yet another expensive clothing store, he suddenly realised that in no way did he look like the type of clientele these hotels usually had. And though he had taken some money with him, he didn't have enough to make himself look like a convincing rich man. He couldn't go to a cash point either, because by now John must be looking for him and he didn't want to be traceable.

Across the street a man was staring at Sherlock. Immediately Sherlock's mind went through all the possible options. He's working for Moriarty, he followed me. He's working for Mycroft, it's my surveillance. He's working for Lestrade, John went to the police. But then Sherlock realised the solution was much simpler; the man was staring at Sherlock because Sherlock was dressed as a working man and had now slowed down in front of an expensive store, as if he were casing the place. Sherlock grinned at that, suspected of being a criminal yet again…

Sherlock resumed his quick pace down the street and didn't slow down until he reached the part of the street where the stores stopped and the houses became less and less expensive. Sherlock was near one of London's great parks now and wondered if he would sleep there tonight. He could hear a car approaching, a low and very loud rumble, coming towards him as rolling thunder.

There were too many people around London, even at this time of night, Sherlock couldn't possible hide. And he had no clue how he was going to identify the Barracuda. He needed more data, he needed more eyes. He might even need - and he swallowed hard before admitting this to himself - Mycroft… and - god help him - Lestrade.

The roaring car stopped just in front of Sherlock. It was a red sports car. Sleek, modern, and impossible to get into if you were a normal height. Sherlock was bad with recognising cars, he was much better at identifying a car by it's tire tracks.

Just after Sherlock passed the car, he felt something hit him against the back of the head. And again. Darkness crept in, but even with his brain slowly shutting down, Sherlock could deduce that whatever had hit him, had been a blunt instrument wielded by a woman. After all, he had no idea what she looked like, but that didn't mean the Barracuda didn't know what Sherlock Holmes looked like.


	3. Chapter 3

Lestrade had never particularly warmed to John Watson. He felt no real dislike for the man, more a disinterest. And Lestrade had never understood why Sherlock had suddenly decided to work with this army doctor. He seemed to bring no new knowledge to the table and merely played into Sherlock's vanity by regularly complimenting the - admittedly impressive - deductions the man made. Lestrade had suspected John Watson had been a tool to annoy the police. Something they should object to and something Sherlock could then demand to keep near him, thus showing them all that Sherlock Holmes was too important to obey the rules.

Sherlock Holmes had not changed in the 4 - nearly 5 - years Lestrade had known him. His brilliance was the only thing that made Lestrade swallow his anger time and time again. The truth was, sometimes - just sometimes - he needed Sherlock's help. And he could swallow his pride and bear the insults, because at the end of the day Sherlock would help Lestrade solve the case. So whatever might happen between the beginning and the end, Lestrade could at least tell himself - with a certain pride - that he had once again, solved the crime, done everything he could.

The shortish doctor was still raging on about Sherlock - his flatmate. For a moment Lestrade let himself imagine what it must be like to live with a man like Sherlock. He shivered.

"…even his brother seems little interested in finding him," John finished. He needed to catch his breath and hoped he didn't sound like a panting dog as he did so. How does Sherlock do it, speaking at this rate? His mind wondered for a while, apparently momentarily forgetting its worry about Sherlock.

Patiently John waited for an answer. Inspector Lestrade seemed oddly distracted but John hoped that meant he was thinking about everything John had just explained. Eventually John lost his patience. "Well?" he almost demanded.

"Well…," Lestrade started slowly, "if Sherlock left of his own accord…"

"We can't know that for sure, he was just gone. Just left the hospital, leaving me behind."

"That's hardly unusual behaviour for him," Lestrade pointed out.

John bit his lip. "He's never disappeared for days before."

"You really haven't known him all that long," Lestrade said.

John let out an aggravated breath. "He's not going to disappear while he has an interesting case to solve, is he?"

Lestrade considered this, his head almost signalling how he weighed the different options against each other.

"Maybe he's had a relapse," a female voice said from somewhere behind John.

John turned around to face the person who'd spoken. It was Donovan. She was wearing a knee length kaki skirt and a beige blouse. She was leaning against the doorpost, her arms crossed and her lips pressed together in a tight line. "He is a drug addict," Donovan added to her previous statement.

"Sherlock doesn't use any…" John said, but was interrupted by Donovan.

"Drug addicts stay drug addicts, even when they don't use. He could easily have had a relapse and be lying in an alley somewhere, thinking about where he can score…"

John shook his head, "I don't think so," he said. As always he felt this strange need to defend Sherlock. "I don't think that's the case."

Donovan almost visibly shook from all the effort it took her to keep calm. She always failed in the end though. Sherlock Holmes simply had that effect on her. And she hated it when people couldn't see him for what he really was. She realised that shouting would only make her seem like the bad guy, but she had to make people see.

"You haven't told him how we met Sherlock Holmes, have you?" the question was directed at Lestrade, but clearly rhetorical.

Donovan looked at John. "We arrested him when he tried to buy heroine off an undercover officer."

"You mean to say Sherlock didn't notice it was a police man and not a dealer?" John asked incredulously. After all these months 'fighting crime' with Sherlock, John knew the man would have picked up on a cop in disguise instantly.

"He did recognise it was an officer in disguise, but he wanted to buy drugs off me anyway," Donovan said.

"It was you?" John asked surprised.

"Back then I was still on the drug squad and it was the first undercover assignment I got."

"And you arrested Sherlock?"

"Yes I did," Donovan said through gritted teeth as she turned her eyes to Lestrade, looking at him with an intensity that could probably be best described as hate.

Lestrade's brow furrowed and he bit his lip. John guessed that Lestrade knew what Donovan was referring to and he felt guilty for it.

"Sherlock could help us with a case I was investigating," Lestrade said. "Donovan brought him in for questioning, but she got into an argument with the inspector using the interrogation room - me. Meanwhile, Sherlock was looking at the files I was carrying and from even that small amount of information he could gather from them, he deduced so much information, I honestly thought he might be involved in the case."

"What case?"

Lestrade pursed his lips. He looked at Donovan, who was staring out the nearest windows, her arms crossed and locked in front of her. "A young boy was abducted and murdered," Lestrade said.

"His name was Michael," Donovan added, barely able to control her voice.

Lestrade looked at her with a strange mixture of annoyance and compassion. John guessed Lestrade didn't like to be reminded of what had happened to the young boy. "Yes it was," Lestrade said to Donovan. "Sherlock knew details that hadn't been released to the press yet, so I decided to interrogate him to find out if he was involved in the murder. Eventually I found out he had an alibi and handed him back over to Donovan for the drug charge."

"But you made a deal with him," Donovan said.

"Sherlock made the deal, he said he could find the boy's murderer before he would kill again. In exchange I would have to drop the charges against Sherlock."

"He found the murderer then?" John asked.

"Yes, but…"

"By then he had already killed two other boys," Donovan interrupted Lestrade, "and you still let him go!"

"He had done his part of the deal, he wasn't responsible for those boys' deaths!" Lestrade defended himself.

"But you could see how he was when we found the murderer! He didn't even care that three children were dead, he was just pleased he had proven how 'clever' he is!"

Lestrade frowned, but decided to end his discussion with Donovan. "A week later Sherlock showed up because he'd seen a news report of a case I was investigating and claimed to know who did it."

"And he did," John concluded.

"Yes," Lestrade said.

Trunks are not a comfortable way to travel. Which shouldn't be surprising, after all they weren't designed to transport people. Therefore it took Sherlock no time at all to deduce he would not enjoy this trip. That, and the fact that, most likely, when the Barracuda got him to Moriarty, some form of torture would take place.

Sherlock tried to brace himself, but every turn made him bounce around in the trunk. His shoulder had healed from the bullet wound caused by one of Moriarty's snipers at the pool, but it still hurt at times. This was not helping. In his head Sherlock was taking every turn the Barracuda was taking. Sherlock knew every street in London and every connection between them. He had known exactly where they were when the Barracuda abducted him, so he had his starting point right, however, he had been unconscious for a while. Not very long, Sherlock thought, but then how would he tell? They'd crossed a bridge a few minutes ago and of he could just figure out which one it was, he would be able to tell where he was. Not that there was much point to that, but Sherlock could use all the data he could get.

Finally the rocking stopped, but Sherlock's body felt sore all over. Sherlock could hear women's shoes move around the car, a key scraping in a lock and then there was light. The kind of artificial daylight found in many places, but he guessed they were in some kind of underground parking lot. Sherlock squinted his eyes to see who was standing over him. He could see a dark outline, but that was all.

It occurred to him he should've been prepared to attack the moment the trunk opened, but somehow he didn't feel it would accomplish anything. After all, it was highly unlikely there weren't more people around. The Barracuda probably had orders to kill Sherlock in front of Moriarty, so Jimbo had to be around here and he would never let himself be unprotected.

"I like you're disguise," a familiar voice said. It's childish tone seemed an odd contrast to the venom you could clearly hear coming through. "Playing cowboy, are we?" Sherlock eyes were slowly adjusting to the light and now he could see Moriarty's smile getting closer. Not the grin you'd expect form you're typical psychopath, but unnerving all the same - even to Sherlock.

Sherlock got out of the trunk, and closed it. He leaned against the car, trying to find his legs again. Sherlock looked at the woman standing a few feet away from him. She was his age, with long black hair and green eyes. She was beautiful, but wearing a lot of make-up, something Sherlock had already known to expect. She looked… polished, right down to the smallest details. The Barracuda wasn't smiling, nor did she look particularly vicious. She was just a woman. Undoubtedly considered attractive, though Sherlock was never very good at judging that.

"So this is your plan? To just kill me?" Sherlock asked Moriarty.

"Of course not," Moriarty smiled.

"Oh I'm sure there will be some torture first," Sherlock said. Boring, he thought to himself. It was so predictable.

From somewhere behind Moriarty a man appeared. His posture, his build, his manner and his walk meant he had to be in security. Personal security, Sherlock guessed. "What, no snipers this time?"

Moriarty's face changed completely. The hate, the cold anger in it would have been terrifying to most people. "I seem to be having some trouble hiring new ones after the last had to be executed. I cannot have people working for me who don't listen. And one of them decided to shoot you of his own accord. I couldn't be sure who had been the one to pull the trigger and I needed to show I do not accept disloyalty."

Sherlock's thoughts went to his shoulder and he knew that shot had been what saved not only his life, but John's as well.

"Surely you understand the importance of loyalty, Sherlock, with a friend like Doctor John Watson. Though he seems to be absent right now."

His tone showed that Moriarty expected John to show up here, wherever 'here' was. But Sherlock knew John wouldn't come. Not because John didn't want to or knew not to, but because Sherlock wouldn't let him. Sherlock had picked up on the breadcrumb trail Moriarty had been creating for the police. Sherlock had picked up at it in the hospital when Lestrade had called them in because of the 'message' Moriarty had left there.

"You think the police will find me through the Barracuda," Sherlock said, looking at the female assassin. "But they'll be looking for a man." Sherlock couldn't prevent the smirk that appeared on his face now. "The most obvious evidence that the assassin had to be female was the doctor's coat you left in the victim's room. But I got rid of it."

"The coat?" Moriarty asked, playing the fool.

"Oh come on," Sherlock rolled his eyes. "It's size could've been misleading, after all perhaps the male assassin was just very slight, but on its collar there were clear traces of makeup - foundation. So obviously someone very conscious about appearances. True, it could've been part of a disguise, but just makeup is far more likely and then there was the fact that the coat was rather fragrant. I'm not up to date on women's perfumes, but I would guess something in the Chanel line." Sherlock looked at the Barracuda to confirm his conclusions.

"The police are idiots, but even Lestrade would've at least taken a look at female suspects. The case with the Gollum has made him more aware of assassins in Europe, therefore it's very likely he would've looked up what female assassins there are here and the Barracuda would've come up on top of that list. Undoubtedly that would have led to the next breadcrumb, but unfortunately I already removed the first one, so the trail is broken."

"Very impressive, Sherlock," Moriarty said. He dug his hands in his pockets and strolled over to Sherlock. His bodyguard followed him closely. "But…" Moriarty stretched the word to it's very limits and his voice became very high suddenly. "There was another trail." Moriarty let out an almost laugh as he saw the reaction on Sherlock's voice. "Come now Sherlock, you didn't think I would underestimate you? And risk us being stood up by John Watson?"

Sherlock wasn't very impressed by Moriarty's words. He figured Moriarty felt threatened, at least feared his plan wouldn't work out, so he was lashing out with whatever he thought would work on Sherlock. Then it hit Sherlock. Something that had been bothering him in the hospital, something he should've seen much earlier. But with everything that had followed, he had thought it wasn't important, or at least not urgent. Now he remembered, and now he saw what he couldn't see before. The man in the hospital bed, the victim, the patient who was the wrong patient. Now Sherlock could see why that man had to be in the bed, had to be the victim. He had known Moriarty wouldn't have chosen a random victim.

"It was the sniper," Sherlock concluded. The man who was in the hospital bed, the victim who had started this whole journey, was the sniper who had shot Sherlock. And he was the first breadcrumb that would lead John to this trap.


	4. Chapter 4

Good old John Watson never let any of his friends down. Loyal to a fault, he would do anything he could to help. Talk to powerful siblings, go to the police, and do it all again. Despite the fact that Sally Donovan clearly hated the idea of anyone willing to help Sherlock Holmes, she was willing to help John Watson. She was cursing Sherlock all the way through and being her aggressive self, but she did give John what he wanted.

"Inspector Lestrade is at a crime scene," Donovan said as she shuffled through papers that clearly weren't her own. "But he did mention they found something." Donovan glanced at John. "Though I'm not sure if I should give you this information."

John let out a long sigh. "Donovan, Sherlock isn't the criminal, and we need to stop Moriarty."

"I know that," Donovan said, clearly trying to restrain herself, but as always she found that difficult when it came to Sherlock Holmes. "But you're talking about risking your life for him and he isn't worth it!"

John shook his head. "I won't risk my life…"

"You have before," Donovan pointed out. "And you will again, if I tell you how to find Sherlock."

John frowned. "You know how to find him?"

Donovan bit her lip. "Lestrade figured out who the victim was, the one from the hospital."

"And that will lead us to Moriarty and Sherlock?"

"Yes. The man was Damon Brown, he worked as a hitman."

"For Moriarty?" John asked, then he realised something. "He was there at the pool!"

Donovan nodded. "His wife gave us what she called his 'work phone' and we traced the last number to call it. It was a landline."

"Where did the call come from?" John asked impatiently.

Donovan bit her lip again. "Lestrade is going there tomorrow, you can ask if you can tag along, but I don't think he'll be okay with that… and that is probably for the best."

"Tell me where the call came from! You were going to tell me anyway!"

Donovan looked shocked. "No I wasn't, I was only going to show you we found out who the victim was and…" she finally found the file she'd been looking for. "We found out what the murderer, whoever he was, injected Sarah with." Donovan's look became empathetic and John had never seen her like that before, so it was quite a shock. But it also steered a deep fear in him. He looked at the file and felt he would never have the courage to look inside it. "I'm sorry," Donovan said, as she handed John the file.

The Barracuda was tall, but mainly because of her high heels. Her hair had become frizzy, most likely she'd slept in her car. Sherlock hadn't slept at all, he was now tied to a chair. It was so cliché. Honestly, he was disappointed in Moriarty. A day had passed since Sherlock had gotten here and he could see the impatience grow in Moriarty. After all no one likes it when they threaten someone and then have to wait.

Sherlock hoped the waiting would mean John or the police had not found the trail Moriarty had left for them and they would never get here. But it seemed much more likely that it's simply impossible to time these things, no matter what movies might like you to believe. They could be here another day, or - judging by the police's incompetence - another month. It was impossible to say. All Sherlock could hope for was that Moriarty would become too impatient and just kill him to get it over with.

Moriarty had this strange duality in every part of his being. The cruelty of a man and the impatience of a child. He had the kind of intelligence that should only be paired with a kindness that came from compassion, empathy. Like Sherlock's brother, Moriarty was lazy when it came to the executions of his plans, but unlike his brother, he did like the dramatics of it. He wanted front row seats to every cruelty. And that made him vulnerable. Moriarty would always come out of hiding to see what he could inflict on the world, so he would always be exposed to danger.

Sherlock had now figured out they were in fact underneath a factory. He suspected this was where they got their shipments and send out their finished products. It was a chocolate factory. Moriarty must have owned it already or bought it, because it was shut down right now, however the cleanness of the place suggested it had been functional recently and the unshipped pallets of chocolates suggested it had been shut down very abruptly.

Sherlock moved his eyes to the Barracuda again. She hadn't said a single word yet and Sherlock wasn't sure if she spoke English, because he remembered reading that it was suggested that the Barracuda was a Italian national. Her appearance would correspond to that fact. Sherlock knew she was here to kill both him and John - though not in that order - but he couldn't figure out how. Certainly Moriarty would want it to be dragged out. In the pool he had been forced to take the fast route, but now he had the time to do it 'properly.' Still, Sherlock could remember reading nothing about the Barracuda torturing people. So why hire her? If he could only reach his phone, he could look it up within seconds. But Sherlock's phone was in his apartment. It was almost as frustrating as being tied to a chair and bored out of your mind.

The landline was that of a chocolate factory. John had convinced Donovan to tell him that. But he suspected she'd only given in to his request out of pity, because of what he had just found out about Sarah. John had promised he would accept it if Lestrade said no to him coming with them to save Sherlock.

However… John had no intention of asking Lestrade anything. He had no intention of waiting at all. He didn't care that Donovan had explained to him Lestrade needed time to get the right team together, and that they couldn't underestimate Moriarty and how he might have booby trapped the whole site. John was used to going in blind. Treading on territory that isn't only hostile but completely foreign to you. He knew he could do it on his own and he knew he couldn't just go home and sleep, when Sherlock was being held hostage by Moriarty.

That had to be why Sherlock had disappeared. Mycroft was right, people disappear because either they want to, or someone else wants them to disappear. Which meant Sherlock must have been in Moriarty's hands for days now. God only knew what had happened to him in that time.

The cab stopped a block away from the factory. John got out and the cold night air was a relief to him because he felt he was burning up. Adrenaline was rushing through his veins as he made his way to the factory.

The building was gigantic. It seemed to be made out of a single block of concrete and there were almost no windows in it, only at the very top of the building could John see a row of tiny windows, all of them closed. He circled the building, which took him forever, to try and decide how to get in.

John walked along the length of one of the building's walls and high above him, John could see enormous letters spelling out the name of the place. Unlike before, this was just a regular font, no young ambitious artist had designed this name, it was just there to be functional and so it was completely readable. The letters spelled out a name: Reijkenberg.

Sherlock stared at the truck that was parked at the far end of the space. It had the logo of the factory on it, and its name: Reijkenberg. It was a name of Dutch origin, Sherlock knew, and it reminded him of the name of the gorgeous waterfalls he'd visited as a child. The Reichenbach Falls in Germany. They were beautiful and Sherlock tried to think back to them, to picture them. There was something calming about wild water.

The Barracuda - who still had no other name to Sherlock - circled the group. Moriarty was still standing there, looking slightly bored himself. Sherlock wondered if Moriarty had any doubts to whether John would really be able to find them. If John had only not been part of the case now known as "A Study in Pink." During their final confrontation with the serial killer John had shown his true nature. His actions that day were what made Moriarty so certain John would not call the police. As he had that day, John would show up alone.

People are idiots, Sherlock thought to himself.

I'm an idiot, John thought to himself. Here he was, standing in front of a building he was certain had Sherlock in it and Moriarty and who knew how many people working for Moriarty, and he was going to go in alone. Still, was that really simply stupidity? Hadn't John seen in the war that a small group of soldiers could be much more effective than a large troop? But did one person truly count as a 'small group?'

John took his gun from his pocket. He felt completely comfortable with it and sometimes even forgot how much destruction it could cause when wielded properly. Which meant when not wielded by Sherlock Holmes. It seemed insane that this small gun would be his only weapon, but John knew there was only one shot he needed to get right. If he killed Moriarty, it would mean the end of all of this. No more looking over his shoulder, no more expecting Sherlock to show up dead in a ditch - well, maybe that would remain the same.

But will it save Sarah? John shook his head, as if trying to force the thoughts out. There was no point in thinking of it now. It wouldn't help her and it would only distract John.

John knew a factory this size would have to have one hell of a loading dock and that would probably be its weak point. He circled the building again, until he saw the gigantic 'doors' that would let trucks go in and out of the factory. There was a small down slope and John walked along the side of it, trying to stay as invisible as he could. The building hardly had any windows, but he knew there had to be cameras around and with a bit of bad luck, Moriarty's men would be watching them. And let's face it, since meeting Sherlock Holmes, John's luck had definitely taken a turn for the worst.

A strange creaking sound made John jump. A door he hadn't noticed was opening. A door next to the drive way for the trucks. There was nowhere to hide for John, the whole area was very exposed and his desperate attempt at finding a hiding spot wasn't helping him. If there were more than two guys behind that door, he wouldn't stand a chance and if there was even just one guy behind that door his chances weren't that great either.

John lifted the gun, using both of his hands to keep it as steady as he could; from this distance his shot had to be incredibly precise to kill the man before he could raise the alarm. And even then, the gunshot would most likely be audible throughout the building. John's gun was a service weapon and he had never needed a silencer on it.

The door was being pushed open from the inside and John took the decision to shoot the second it was fully opened. The door opened. John didn't shoot. Standing in the opening, barely visible in the dim light, was a beautiful woman with long black hair.

The Barracuda was gone, probably not for very long, Sherlock suspected. She was probably just tired of waiting for John Watson. Moriarty was sitting on a chair, with his back to Sherlock. The big muscled man who was there for Moriarty's protection was standing just behind the chair.

"I am going to need a bathroom break if we have to wait much longer," Sherlock said. "And if anyone could hand me a cigarette? I have a pack in my jacket." Sherlock moved in his chair, as much as his restrains would let him. "I can't reach it from here," he said. "Left side, inner pocket," he said to the bodyguard who was now staring at Sherlock.

For a second it looked like the bodyguard would do it - he was probably used to taking orders. But then Moriarty turned around in his chair and the bodyguard froze. Moriarty smiled at Sherlock, a forced smile that didn't reach his eyes. He was losing confidence in his plan. Moriarty stood up and walked over to Sherlock.

"I know it's a filthy habit," Sherlock calmly continued, "but I find it helps me think." Moriarty's expression didn't change.

"If you have any nicotine patches on you, that would do the trick as well," Sherlock said.

Moriarty stood still just in front of Sherlock. "Left foot first, I think," Moriarty said. His voice was very even, very unlike him. Moriarty kept his hands in his pockets and indicated Sherlock's left foot by nudging towards it with his elbow. The bodyguard looked oddly uncomfortable as he walked over, revealing a gun he had hidden under his jacket.

The bodyguard stood still just behind Moriarty, his eyes fixed on Sherlock's left foot with a slightly nauseated look on his face. Moriarty turned a little to look at the man standing just behind him. The man looked up to meet Moriarty's gaze. "Left foot," Moriarty calmly repeated.

Sherlock fixed his eyes on Moriarty. He knew this wasn't a bluff. Moriarty was bored and psychopaths were dangerous when they were bored. Moriarty choose s foot because if Sherlock did get shot through his left foot, it would hurt like hell, but it wouldn't kill him. It would 'preserve' Sherlock for whatever game Moriarty was planning, but still make him shut up. "Left foot, if you please," Moriarty said. At the 'if you please-' part his voice shot up, sounding as high and excited as a little boy.

The bodyguard had his eyes on Sherlock's foot again. He had the gun half-raised and if he were to shoot it right now, it would most likely miss Sherlock's foot.

"Left foot," Moriarty repeated through gritted teeth. His jaw was clenched but he still managed to pull his lips into a tight smile. "Left foot."

John was slightly surprised to find himself unharmed. He had failed to shoot at sight and had not been punished for it. Nor had he been punished for the fact he had failed to shoot in the three minutes that followed. John Watson had a weak spot for beautiful women. Well, he was a man after all. So he would ask out beautiful women, even if they had ignored him and he wouldn't shoot them, even if they were going to kill him if he didn't.

The tall and - most importantly - beautiful woman in front of John now, took out her own gun. John stood there, still gripping his own gun with both his hands, waiting for the woman to shoot him. She didn't. Instead she slowly put the gun on the ground and walked towards John with her hands raised in the air.

"You're the Barracuda," John slowly realised.

The woman nodded and kept coming closer. "You killed Sarah! You injected her with poison!" John took a step forward, wanting to attack this woman, then he realised something. "What poison was it? They said if they knew they could save her."

The Barracuda nodded. "I will tell you, but firstly…"

When she came to stand still just in front of John, he finally thought it was time to lower the gun. He looked at the woman dumbfounded as she extended her hand. "My name is Julia," she said, though she pronounced the name in a way he never could.

John shook her hand but didn't say anything. Partly because he was still a bit too amazed to remember his own - very common - first name, and partly because he was concentrating on wiping the sheepish look off his face.

"Doctor John Watson, right?" she asked. Julia had the slightest trace of an accent, but John couldn't place it. John nodded and Julia smiled in response. "Good, then you're my back-up," she smiled again.

John nodded, then realised he had no idea what Julia was talking about. "What am I backing up?"

Sherlock knew people often thought he was arrogant, because he was, and they often thought he had a smug look on his face, because he often did. He wondered what his expression was like this time. Probably not very smug. Despite everything people might think of him, Sherlock did not particularly like pain and he was fairly certain getting shot through the foot was going to hurt like hell.

Or not. The shot Sherlock heard echoing through the empty space was not one directed at him. It was directed at the bodyguard and Moriarty. Or so Sherlock assumed because the bullet failed to hit either of them and probably ended up in a wall somewhere. But it had served its purpose, it had stopped the bodyguard from maiming Sherlock's left foot.

Good old John Watson, loyal John Watson, came running at the three figures. The bodyguard immediately lifted his gun to take aim, but John duct behind a truck. Though it was clear the bodyguard was never going to hit John, he shot anyway, causing a small round whole in the side of the truck.

Then someone else came rushing toward the scene, Sherlock could see it was the Barracuda, and she was heading straight for Sherlock. Undoubtedly she had orders to kill Sherlock the second things seemed to go wrong, but it would make no sense to kill him now. And why was Moriarty looking like…

Sherlock got distracted by the feeling of someone cutting the ropes that kept him trapped. It was the Barracuda. The cut rope fell off of him and Sherlock stood up. He turned around to look at the Barracuda, trying to understand why she was suddenly on his side. But Sherlock had no time for the mystery, knowing he would only have minutes before Moriarty got away. Quickly he searched the space to see where Moriarty had gone. The bodyguard had taken another shot at the truck and John had returned his fire, but now the bodyguard was gone.

Sherlock got a glimpse of the man disappearing through a white door. Sherlock rushed over there, followed by John and the Barracuda. The door let to a staircase. There was no telling whether Moriarty had gone through the first door or gone further up the stairs, but Sherlock took the first door.

It led to a narrow hallway and Sherlock could see the two men running in front of them. If John had been in front, he could've taken a shot, but there was no time now. Moriarty and the bodyguard vanished through another door. When they reached it, the door was already closing again, but Sherlock slammed his shoulder against it to throw it open. It led to the factory's storage space. The ceiling had to be at least 40 feet high and there were closets everywhere with boxes reaching all the way up.

They were still running and Sherlock could feel himself getting out of breath. The Barracuda however seemed to have an endless supply of energy because she managed to catch up to Sherlock. Their eyes met and Sherlock couldn't read anything in her face. Then she suddenly turned right and disappeared between the closets.

"Where is she going!" John demanded, Sherlock could hear he was out of breath as well.

They reached the end of the lane they had been running down. There was a service elevator here. Sherlock stopped and almost collapsed right there on the spot. He was leaning on his knees, panting. John was doing the same thing. Sherlock tried to hear something above the sound of their heavy breathing. He could hear people moving in this space, but he couldn't tell where they were.

"How did you get Julia on our side?" John asked, then having to stop talking to catch his breath again.

"Julia?"

"Yeah, the…," John took a deep breath and gestured to empty space. "The Barracuda."

"You're on first name base with the woman who tried to kill me?" Sherlock asked and he laughed a little.

John shook his head. "But how did you get her to help us?"

"I didn't," Sherlock answered. "And trust me, she didn't seem to be helping me when she knocked me out and brought me here."

"But she helped me!"

"She isn't helping us now."

"Still…"

"John," Sherlock said, it sounded like a warning. "I don't know, something must have happened between the time she attacked me and now."

John nodded, then straightened himself. "What do we do now?"

"We kill Moriarty," Sherlock said.

"Yes, but how?" John looked at Sherlock.

Sherlock straightened himself as well and leaned against the wall next to the service elevator. He shook his head. "I'm not sure yet."

"I could call Lestrade," John suggested.

Sherlock opened the elevator door. "No point, by the time he gets here Moriarty will be gone." Sherlock looked at John, he stepped back from the elevator and moved backwards until John had to turn to still be able to see him. "Don't count on the police, John."

John sighed. "Do you think Julia is still going after them?" John asked.

Sherlock nodded. "Yes, I think so." And you could still hear people running around in the factory, but it sounded more distant now. "I suspect she'll try to manouver them to the factory floor. Open space… much easier hunting ground."

Sherlock remained quiet for a while. "I'm sorry John," Sherlock said. John was dumbfounded not just by the wrods he had just heard Sherlock say, but by the fact that he believed them. The look on Sherlock's fave was filled with remorse and pain. Then Sherlock put both his hands on John's chest and shoved him into the service elevator. Sherlock slammed the door shut, looking John inside. Then he pressed a button and the elevator started to go up. John stared through the small window at Sherlock, not fully understanding yet. "Sherlock," he said. Then he realised what Sherlock was doing.

"Sherlock!" John slammed his hadn against the door, knowing there was no point. "Don't do this! Let me out!" He stared at Sherlock's face as it disappeared from view when the elevator continued to go up. Then it abruptly stopped. John knew what Sherlock had done, Sherlock had used the emergency stop they had seen next to the lift. It was almost completely black in the elevator now. It was a service elevator meant only for cargo. It had never been intented for living beings, so there was no light and no controls inside. You couldn't even open the door from the inside. Sherlock had trapped John here to keep him from joinging the fight. Which was even more ironic considering John was the soldier and Sherlock was the one who used guns as toys.

"Sherlock!" John yelled at the floor. He slammed his hand against the door again. "He infected Sarah with snake poison! You have to let me out!"

Sherlock ran toward what he hoped was the door leading to the factory floor. He suspected the sounds were coming from here, but it was hard to know for sure with so many echoes going through this place.

Sherlock half-realised that if the sniper hadn't shot him, he and John would probably be dead already. Now another assassin was helping them. But would they really have been killed? Sherlock suddenly doubted it. Was the bomb in the pool even real? It must have been, because the threat to John's life had been real. But would Moriarty kill himself? No.

The sniper had sacrificed his life for nothing. Moriarty had no intention of letting himself get blown to pieces, not even if that meant defeating Sherlock. In the pool Sherlock had always know Moriarty wouldn't let the bomb explode. Fear had clouded Sherlock's thinking, but he could see it much clearer now. He didn't know for certain what measures Moriarty had taken against the bomb exploding but he knew Moriarty would never kill Sherlock as well as himself. Moriarty valued himself too highly for that, the same way Sherlock valued himself to highly for that. Self-sacrifice is not for the vain.

Sherlock came to a full stop just before reaching the door. He allowed himself only seconds to catch his breath before opening the door. It led to the factory floor. A gigantic open space filled with a strange contraption build up out of odd-looking metal equipment.

Sherlock looked around the room, he could hear people shouting. There, in the far corner he could see the Barracuda struggling with Moriarty's bodyguard. Moriarty was nowhere to be seen. It hardly looked like a far fight, the slight woman against the muscled professional. But then you didn't become on of the world's lead assassins if you weren't good at killing people.

The bodyguard charged at the Barracuda and threw her full weight against her, slamming her against the wall. The Barracuda collapsed to the floor, trying to force herself to get up again, one arm around her ribs. The bodyguard seemed to be looking for something. Sherlock spotted it before he did: his gun, lying on the ground a few feet away from him.

Despite being fully aware that he could never reach it before the bodyguard did, Sherlock ran towards it. The bodyguard looked up at the sound of feet rushing towards him and was obviously startled to see Sherlock. Now the bodyguard saw the gun as well and went for it. But he Barracuda saw what was happening and she kicked at the bodyguard's legs, causing him to tumble forward, just missing the gun. The Barracuda sprang up and leapt forward, grabbing the gun and then rolling onto her back to be able to point the gun at the bodyguard. He dropped to the floor, then quickly crawled towards the door. The Barracuda fired the gun, but missed the bodyguard who disappeared behind the door. The Barracuda got up and followed him.

Sherlock got to the door, but wasn't sure if he should follow them. He looked around the factory floor, still no sign of Moriarty. Most likely he was gone. Back in the shadows. In a way, Moriarty was very similar to Mycroft, neither of them wanted to get their hands dirty. They operated from fancy offices with pretty PAs, controlling and arranging but never directly involved.

Along the wall ran a staircase that led to the office. The office was the only part of this place that had any windows. Sherlock could see them from here. He knew they would probably not be big enough for him to fit through, but he needed to try and escape. The building had no windows on the ground floor, so nothing he could break and go through. The doors would all be locked, except for the one John had gone through, but Sherlock couldn't find that one if he tried. Besides, he had no time to go looking for the parking lot he had been held prisoner.

Sherlock ran up the stairs. He had never been afraid of heights and wasn't now as he climbed up the stairs and the floor moved further and further away from him. The 40 feet high ceiling got closer and closer to him. He reached the top and pulled on the office door. But it wouldn't budge. Sherlock could look inside through a tiny window in the door and he saw the windows were even smaller than they had looked from afar. And they couldn't open. Sherlock turned around as he heard footsteps on the stairs behind him. It was Moriarty himself.

Moriarty took his time to climb the stairs. Every footstep echoed through the hollow space. "I really cannot allow you to leave, Sherlock," Moriarty said. "It has been entertaining, this game of ours, but truly it has come to an end." The artificial smile on his face turned vicious and his pace quickened. Sherlock's mind went through all the possible outcomes of this confrontation and all the consequences of what he might do.

Naturally, his mind was trying to find a way to survive, but that was only instinct and Sherlock was intelligent enough to be able to ignore instinct. After all, if he made it through this without killing Moriarty, John would still be in danger. And having trapped his friend in an elevator meant he was very vulnerable right now. Moriarty's men would have no trouble finding him. Sherlock had known that when he trapped John there - of course - but he hadn't planned on getting trapped himself.

To kill the snake you had to cut off his head; Moriarty's men would become docile as soon as their leader was killed. And that was what Sherlock had planned to do, kill James Moriarty. But know he couldn't see how to. If he waited for Moriarty to reach the top of the stairs he could push him over and a fall from this height would most certainly kill him, but the changes of Moriarty dragging Sherlock along with him were pretty high. To kill Moriarty, Sherlock might have to kill himself as well.

John slammed his hand against the wall again. More out of habit than really expecting Sherlock to come back for him. Hell, Sherlock could very well be dead by now. Then Moriarty would probably leave John alone, after all what fun would there be in killing him then? It would be the police letting John out then. And if Sherlock managed to kill Moriarty? Did he stand a chance? Maybe now he had Julia on his side. An assassin who was suddenly on their side. What had made her switch teams anyway? It made no sense. Sherlock hadn't made her choose to help him and John hadn't either. And guessing by her profession, she didn't have any trouble killing people, so it hadn't been her conscience either.

There was something much worse about being trapped in here. John needed to contact the hospital, to tell them from which snake the poison came. The poison that was killing Sarah. Julia had told him what it was and if the doctors knew, they could save her life. But John was trapped in this elevator and if he had to wait for someone to find him, it might be too late for Sarah.

With a sudden jerk, the elevator started to move again. John looked around him in the almost entirely black space. He vainly tried to think of something he could use as a weapon. He had his gun, but there were no bullets in it left.

Someone opened the door, causing the light to flood back into the small room John had been trapped in. He blinked with his eyes, trying to see who had freed him.

"Julia," he said amazed.

"John," she mimicked his voice.

John looked around the room. "Why are you here, where's Sherlock? Where's Moriarty and that big…"

"The bodyguard is dead, Sherlock is on the factory floor and I lost Moriarty," Julia quickly stated. She grabbed John by the arm. "Now let's go before someone else is dead as well." She started running and pulled John with her.

"Who do you work for?" John asked.

"Whoever pays me," Julia smiled. It was unnerving.

"Who's paying you now?"

Julia shook her head. Maybe assassins had a 'doctor-patient-confidentiality' thing going on.

"Fine, then why are you helping us?"

"I'm being paid to."

"Paid to help Sherlock Holmes?" John asked incredulous.

Then it hit him. There really was only one person she could be working for. Maybe there were several people who had a reason to want Sherlock kept alive, but there was only one of them who could afford to outbid Moriarty when it came to an assassin's loyalty.

"You're working for Mycroft Holmes," John exclaimed.

Julia looked impressed. "Yes, at the moment."

"Then why did you hand Sherlock over to Moriarty?" John asked, he slowed his pace and hoped Julia would do the same because he wasn't going to be able to keep running.

"Then I wasn't working for Mycroft yet. I was working for Moriarty."

"Wait," John said and he stopped running all together. "When did you start working for Mycroft?"

"About thirty minutes before you showed up."

"Er…" John didn't understand.

"Mycroft called me and told me to keep his brother safe and that you would be showing up to try and rescue Sherlock. So I kept an eye on the cameras and saw you approaching the building and…"

"He called you and gave you an order and you just changed sides?"

"As I said, I work for whoever pays me. True, Moriarty did hire me first and usually when two jobs have conflicting interest, I have a 'first come, first served' policy, but Mycroft is my biggest employer, so he has first rights."

"Mycroft is your biggest employer?" John asked surprised.

"Exactly. And he told me to keep his brother save and make sure he could take over Moriarty's business."

"Mycroft wants Moriarty's business?"

Julia started running again. "And he wants Sherlock safe, so could we go and take care of that now?"

John reluctantly started running again. They reached a door and went through it. Immediately John could see Sherlock and Moriarty standing at the very top of a very large staircase.

"Sherlock!" Sherlock turned his face to see John standing at the far side of the room. The Barracuda was standing just in front of him.

"I see your pet is here," Moriarty said.

"Good old John Watson," Sherlock mumbled to himself.

"She's working for your brother! Julia is working for Mycroft!" John yelled.

Sherlock had no idea why John felt he needed to know that right now. The Barracuda is working for Mycroft. Sherlock wasn't surprised his brother would have an assassin on his payroll. After all, Mycroft worked for every major government in Europe, of course he had need of someone to 'resolve' difficult situations for him.

Moriarty had that tight smile on his face again. "It seems both Holmes brothers are making things difficult for me," he said. Sherlock was certain it was meant as a threat against his brother's life. But then he had never worried about Mycroft.

From the corner of his eye, Sherlock could see the Barracuda and John argue over a gun. It looked like the one the bodyguard had, but Sherlock guessed it would be empty by now. Unlike in the movies, real life guns didn't have an endless supply of ammunition.

John came towards the staircase. "We've called the police, Moriarty," John said. "Come down."

Moriarty smiled at John. "Never count on the police," he said.

Sherlock understood what Moriarty meant, there was no way Moriarty didn't have at least some of the police force on his side. And knowing Jimbo, he probably had only the highest ranking officers on his payroll.

Never count on the police, John, Sherlock thought to himself.

Moriarty turned around on the small platform. He wasn't as tall as Sherlock and had to stand on his toes to lean in and whisper in Sherlock's ear. "I'll burn the heart out of you," he said.

The wide grin on his face was unbearable. Sherlock glanced down at the figure of John Watson, the man who had risked his life several times for Sherlock. Moriarty would kill him, torture him. All to get to Sherlock. There were only two ways to save John's life. One was to kill Sherlock, the other was to kill Moriarty.

No, there's one other way, Sherlock thought to himself. Kill us both. Sherlock looked at John. Then using his full weight, he threw both himself and Moriarty over the ledge.

Even with time running against him, Sherlock's mind had just enough time to realise no one survives a fall from that height.


End file.
